


Fresh Bread For Breakfast

by Kiraly



Category: A Redtail's Dream (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking, Family Bonding, Gen, Illustrated, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: Jouko might not be a perfect man or a perfect father. But he gives his children what he can.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yuuago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuago/gifts).



> Surprise! It's an extra, last-minute treat! I almost wasn't going to put it on AO3 (because there's pretty much a 0% chance you won't guess my identity), but then what was just a drawing turned into a drawing with a ficlet attached. So here you go, I hope you enjoy it!

“Are you ready? It’s almost time.”

The twins looked up from their mixing bowl, eyes lit with anticipation. They had flour in their hair, smears of chocolate around their mouths, and were covered up to the elbows in something...sticky. The smiles on their faces were worth it, though. Jouko felt an answering smile tugging at his lips.

“Go and wash your hands, then you can come and watch.” Jonna and Joona hopped down from their chairs and ran to do his bidding. They hardly ever obeyed him without trying to squirrel out of it, but this was different. They knew they had to be good to earn this particular treat.

While the two of them scrubbed and splashed each other in the bathroom down the hall, Jouko sidled over to their abandoned bowl. It  _ looked  _ like cookie dough, more or less. He dipped a finger in to scoop some out, and it had almost the right texture too. But of course, when he put it in his mouth, he found that Jonna had been overly enthusiastic with the salt again, and Joona had countered by adding more sugar, and probably both of them had decided it would be better if they put in more of  _ every  _ baking spice they could get their hands on. Well. He’d bake them anyway, and suffer through eating one, and someday his children would learn to follow a recipe. And of course, there was always the other batch of cookie dough in the fridge in case one of them took the failure badly.

When Joona and Jonna returned, slightly damp but much less sticky, Jouko planted them on chairs by the counter. “Now, remind me: what’s the rule?”

“Watch, don’t touch,” they chorused. He’d have to remind them again, because six-year-olds were prone to forgetting, especially when something looked like so much  _ fun.  _ But he had their attention; now it was time for the show.

Every time Jouko opened the warming oven, it struck him that bread was, in some ways, a small miracle. He knew all the steps, all the tricks to get the dough to do what he asked. He could make a dozen varieties without glancing at the recipe. And yet, there was always that chance of something going wrong. Water too hot could kill the yeast; a slip of attention could ruin a whole batch. So to open the warmer and find the risen dough, perfect rounded domes ready for shaping, was a blessing he didn’t take lightly.

He removed the first batch and slapped it onto the waiting circle of flour. Joona jumped at the noise, and Jonna giggled. Jouko smiled and began to knead, working the dough in his large hands. The twins clutched the edge of the table with their much smaller fingers. Sometimes one of them would clench a hand in imitation of his, already trying to figure out the motion. When they got bigger, he’d teach them to do this, too. For now, though, they were content to watch—and ask questions.

“Why do you always put flour on the table, Dad?” Joona asked. He traced patterns in the pale dusting on the counter in front of him.

“It keeps the dough from sticking to the counter,” Jouko said. “Do you see how easily I can lift it off? Without flour, it would stick.”

“But what happens if you use too much?” Jonna asked. She had a perennial curiosity about why some amounts were ‘too much’ and others were ‘just right’.

“Then the dough might not stay together. A little bit of water will fix that though, don’t worry.”

He sank into the rhythm of it, kneading, shaping, setting finished loaves to bake. The twins watched, enraptured, until the last loaf was in the oven and there was nothing left to do but clean up. He sent them off with fresh slices of bread, still warm and dripping butter. 

The sound of their laughter echoed down the hall. Jouko smiled to himself and started the long process of cleaning up after them. He might not be the world’s best father—he knew there were bound to be better ones out there, men with more time or money or more glamorous jobs. He couldn’t give his children every little thing they might ask for. But he could give them fresh bread for breakfast every day, and that had to count for something. 


End file.
